


Director's Cut

by Jackofallsorts



Category: Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios
Genre: Child Abuse, Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Gore, M/M, The OCs are people in Paulo's past, The other Icons will appear later on, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-05-09 23:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackofallsorts/pseuds/Jackofallsorts
Summary: Moments in the life of Paulo Ravinski from his childhood to his years as an icon that shaped him into who he is.





	1. Fallen Birds and Wasted Film

**Author's Note:**

> (Chapter includes child abuse and animal death)

Warm summer sunlight filtered through the elaborate glass window, causing the room to grow unbearably stifling hot. A boy, seated on a wooden piano bench, looked longingly towards the outside, wanting nothing more to return to the world beyond the pristine office in which he now sat. He fidgeted, glaring down at the floor, wondering once again how long he would be left to swelter in the stuffy office. He had sat and waited for what felt like hours at that point, ever since he had been dragged into the office by his collar to sit and wait until his father decided just what to do with him.

He thought back through the morning, trying to decipher just what he had done to make his father so angry. It couldn't have been his use of the BB gun that he and his brother had been given, their father had all but encouraged he and Lucian to go after the deplorable vermin that tore up their mother's otherwise immaculate garden and flowerbeds. It couldn't have been due to he and his brother fighting, the two boys had been relatively separate of each other prior to Lucian finding him near the edge of the woods.

Had it been the use of the camera? While he knew that his father would be angry at him for taking it without permission, surely he would be able to see the same thing that the boy himself saw when he watched the footage. It was good! Showing such elegance,such delicateness, such a morbid sense of beauty. The boy had thought that what he had captured was unique, so different than anything he had seen captured on film before. It made him feel something, so surely it would do the same to others, wouldn't it?

His inquiry was soon answered as the office door opened. Innocent blue eyes looked up only to meet the furious dark ones that glared down at him.

“Do you have any idea the seriousness of what you’ve done?” A cold voice asked him.

The boy didn’t answer, hanging his head and staring at his shoes. He knew what he was expected to feel, what he was expected to say and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He understood the basic premise of why what he had done was wrong and yet it didn’t feel that way to him. How could creating something that to him felt so wonderful be bad, even as graphic as it was?

“Did you hear me, boy?!”

“…Yes, sir.”

A harsh hand struck his cheek, leaving his eyes watering. He clenched his fists tightly until his knuckles turned white in a struggled to keep from crying. He looked up, watching the looming figure of his father that had made its way to the other side of the room.

“Then you’ll answer me when I address you,” the man growled as he opened a screen and began to set up a projector. “You’re eight years old, boy. You’re old enough to know better than to be getting into other people’s belongings and wasting materials that don’t belong to you. Especially as something as expensive as film.”

A _waste._

The boy’s heart ached and temper flared at the word. How could he not see? How could he be so blind as to not be able to acknowledge the simplistic beauty in what he had captured? It was gory, of course, it was brutal, yes, and it was morbid, he’d known that. But it was genuine, it was real, and in that dark reality one was able to find such beauty, such elegance in the fragility of life.

“What the hell had you even been thinking?!”

“I wanted to make a film,” he said softly, his childhood innocence and honesty pouring through. “Like the ones you and mother let Lucian and I watch. I think it’s beautiful.”

“You’re a sick little bastard,” the man continued, grabbing the boy by the collar and hauling him over to a chair in front of the screen. “What you shot isn't a film. Disgusting filth is what it is and you’re going to sit here and watch it.”

The clicking of the projector was familiar and the boy had to fight to keep a smile from his face at the happy feeling it brought him. He loved film. He had always loved it since he was small enough to remember. The way in which life was captured and preserved in the tiny individual cells, the way in which each of those cells combined to tell a story, to cause emotion, was absolutely mesmerizing to him.

He watched as the static on the screen changed to a familiar scene, one he had composed himself. He watched as the helpless bird fluttered and struggled on the ground. He remembered his movements, being so careful and mindful of each way he twisted and tilted the camera, making sure that the bird’s final moments were captured just so. He realized he was expected to be disgusted, expected to reel in horror of what he had done, to be filled with miserable regret and self-hatred at the way he had killed the innocent creature.

And yet, all the he felt was a sense of pity and a deep ache that came with knowing that he wouldn’t be permitted to create another film.

At least… not with his father’s camera. As the repetitive ticking of the projector signified the end of the reel, his father turned the lights back on again.

“Well, boy?” His cold voice came as the boy lifted his eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The boy’s head lowered once more. He allowed the aching pain he felt to color his expression and to hide the true nature of his feelings.

“I-I’m sorry, sir…”

“Damn well you had better be,” his father growled. “To think if your mother had been the one to catch you in the act of something so horrible. You’ll be going to bed without supper tonight. And to school without breakfast tomorrow if I can manage it. How you’d be able to eat after doing something like that is beyond me anyway.”

“…yes, sir.”

The man nodded, satisfied enough at the moment with the boy’s tears, his punishment and the reddening mark upon his face from the slap he had received.

“…Don’t ever let me catch you at something like this again, Paulo. This film making nonsense ends here. Do you understand?”

The boy held tightly onto his anger as it bubbled inside him. He raised his head, looking his father in the eye as he uttered what was expected of him, knowing full well he would never do as his father asked.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”


	2. Sounding Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: chronic illness and child death

**Five years**

Paulo hated his parent's social events. He was always dragged to them and forced to wear clothing that felt stiff and heavy and itched horribly. That night, as always, he had been instructed to be on his “best behavior,” whatever that was supposed to mean. He knew even then that no matter how he behaved, his parents would never be pleased with how he acted. He was too odd, too curious, too morbid. Other children shied away from him, adults whispered about him. He could say nothing at all and he would still receive punishments at home for the way others had commented to his parents about him.

That particular dinner party, he and the other children had been allowed to go into a separate room. He had ventured towards the corner to be on his own. He found no interest in rough housing and, after the beating he had received for the last pictures he had drawn, he had no interest in taking up pencils again. The other children avoided him, and that was how he preferred it. They were loud, chaotic, uncontrollable. Alone in the corner, it was quiet, peaceful, just him and his thoughts.

Until a hand reached out and touched him.

The smaller boy turned, ready to give a harsh comment to whoever had bothered him, but he stopped as icy blue eyes met the pale, unseeing ones for the first time.

"Who-"

"You're breathing too loud."

Paulo frowned, taken back by the interruption and the comment.

"What do you mean I'm breathing too loud?"

"Just what I said. You're breathing too loud. It's annoying and I'm trying to listen."

"I'm just breathing! Go listen somewhere else!"

"I was here first."

Paulo glared at the other boy and huffed in annoyance.

"What are you listening for anyway? They're just screaming."

"No. It's fun. Listen, Victor is about to get into a fight with Octavian over the puzzle book that Marius stole."

Paulo blinked, genuinely surprised.

"...you could hear all that?"

"Mhmm. Victor got Marius to steal the book a few minutes ago when Octavian must have had his back turned. They were talking earlier and Victor wants to break Octavian's nose. Want to make a bet on who will win?"

"...You're on."

"What's your name?"

"Paulo."

"I'm Dmitri."

**Ten Years**

“I hate them. I hate them so much.”

“Really? I hadn’t gotten that from the first twenty times you said it.”

The smaller boy sent the other a glare, which brought a smirk to the other’s face.

“I can feel you glaring, Paulo.”

“You cannot.”

“Can so. I know you well enough to know when you’re glaring at me.”

They sat along the edge of the small creek, a quiet place that had become a haven for the two outcasted boys. By far the worst of the two, Paulo had for the first time found a soul he could confided his darkest thoughts to in the form of Dmitri. He didn’t find Paulo’s fascination with the macabre to be too morbid or inappropriate. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy listening to the smaller boys fits of passion regarding his latest morbid curiosity. He didn’t flinch back in disgust, he didn’t chastise him for his horrible thoughts or actions, he simply listened and at times even added his own comments in. Dmitri’s mind wasn’t nearly as dark was Paulo’s, but his anger and contempt towards the world often did leave the boy with a darker and more cynical point of view.

Paulo, on his side, was the only one to treat Dmitri as if he wasn’t made of glass. Having been struck with an illness since birth, his parents not yet finding a name for their son’s affliction, Dmitri had always been kept at a distance from others for protection. They saw him as delicate, vulnerable due to his rail thin body and blindness. It enraged the boy to no end and yet, only Paulo seemed to care. The two of them had come to a mutual understanding regarding Dmitri’s condition. There was no reason to discuss it, no real reason to make alterations to how they spent their time out of school. Neither boy had been one to have interests in the games of the other children. An afternoon telling stories or talking by the creek was far more rewarding for them. Outcasted, kindred souls baring to each other what they couldn’t tell the rest of the world.

“Tell me again about the film idea you had?” Dmitri asked, lazily moving his feet through the cool water.

“It wasn’t an idea for a film, just a few scenes,” Paulo said, sighing softly. “I want to find a way to capture the feeling you get when you’re walking up the stairs at night and you miss a step. That awful feeling that runs through you as your foot falls into nothing. And then the uneasiness that lasts for the rest of the night because of it, because you were so certain something was there and then it wasn’t.”

“It’s the sounds.”

“What?”

“The sound. It’s the way the house seems restless, unsteady, and yet too quiet, like there’s something waiting in the dark. You try to tell yourself it’s okay, but with the whole house sitting on edge, you can’t convince yourself that there isn’t something there.”

Icy eyes widened as he frowned and looked at his friend.

“I…never noticed that before.”

“It’s because you don’t notice things like I do,” Dmitri said with a shrug. “You don't listen. You and everyone else just seem to go about your day ignoring the sounds of the world. But sound is everything, Paulo. Don’t ever forget that when your films make it big one day. You can have the most incredible picture in the world, but without the sound, it’s nothing.”

**Eleven Years**

The room around the two boys was warm, almost unbearably so for Paulo. But he would never say a word, not when the warmth was helping his only friend to feel better. He hated when Dmitri was sick, it only served to make him worry. He knew the boy would recover, he always did, but the way that his thin body would tremble and be wracked with horrible coughs still set Paulo on edge.

The two of them had been reading, Dmitri wanting to stay in his friend’s company and yet too tired to truly hold any sort of a conversation. Paulo held the book in his hands as he sat next to the bed, soft words of dark poems passing through his lips. He paused a moment, taking in the sounds as he had learned to do. The soft scratch of his fingers against the book pages, the gentle tapping of a branch on the window pane, the way the gentle wind of autumn blew through the trees and the slightly wheezy, but steady rush of air that came from the other living being in the room.

A small smirk played on his face as Paulo opened his eyes and looked at the other boy, seeing he was clearly fighting to stay awake.

“Paulo?” His quiet voice came.

“Yes, Dmitri?”

“You stopped reading.”

“I did. I was listening, like you taught me to.”

He laughed a little at that.

“Amazing the detail you find, isn’t it? Every little piece adding to what you are feeling around you.”

“It’s incredible.”

Dmitri smiled but then shivered, pulling his blankets closer to him. “I’m cold.”

“You always are. You’re a pain who always steals the sweaters my mother forces me to wear.”

A small chuckle came from the other boy and Paulo called it a success. Truth be told, he had started wearing more layers that could easily be removed simply because his friend always needed them.

“Come up here with me…”

He frowned. That wasn’t normal.

“In bed?”

“Yes. I’m cold and I want to still listen to you. You’ve been speaking so quietly. I know you’re trying to put me to sleep but I won’t be able to if I’m still cold, so get up here.”

Reluctantly, Paulo dog eared the page he had been reading from, slipped off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. His form was so much smaller than Dmitri’s and he was surprised how easily he fit at the other boy’s side. He was surprised at how comfortable it felt, how natural, how simply right.

“There…” Dmitri said, smiling softly and wrapping an arm behind him to make it more comfortable for both of them. “Now keep reading to me?”

While his cheeks had already turned a faint pink, they only darkened at the sight of the next poem. But none the less, Paulo continued, trying to ignore the strange way his heart was fluttering.

_“Take this kiss upon thy brow,_   
_and, in parting from you now,_   
_thus much let me avow-…”_

**13 Years**

It was silent. Everything was silent and he hated it. He hated how everything seemed to be on edge, simply waiting, how the dull white walls seemed to suck all the life out of the room. He winced at the thought.

They had finally found a name for Dmitri’s illness. And along with it, the horrifying realization that this time, he wouldn’t get better. Had they realized earlier, he might have been saved, but now, the boy’s heart had deteriorated. Paulo had been with him when it happened, the other boy fine one second and then collapsing the very next. He had been by his side for as long as they would let him, and then snuck out of his house to visit him in the hospital the second he could.

He knew Dmitri had precious little time left.

Paulo felt cold. He had burned with anger and heartache when he was first told, wanting to destroy the miserable idiots who hadn’t diagnosed his friend in time. But now all that fire was gone, and he was left with a horrible aching in his heart that he couldn’t get to leave.

“Paulo…” Dmitri’s voice came, hoarse and quiet as it was.

“Shhhh...” He said, not daring to move closer to the dying boy. “You should be resting…”

“Come here…” He said again, weakly motioning to his bedside.

With a soft sigh, he gave in and moved closer. A part of him had hoped that if he avoided going near his friend, if he had walked out of the room, that it would all be nothing but a bad dream. That he would wake up and the friend who was so dear to him would be fine and they would be able to go on planning their lives work together.

They were going to leave this place. They were going to make it out and to make films together. They were going to produce works like nothing anyone had seen before. So real, so raw, so detailed.

Now, Paulo knew that would never happened. He knew that only one of them would get the chance to leave, only one would be able to bring their ideas to life.

Because only one of them would be leaving that room alive.

Dmitri took his hand as he made it to his bedside, offering Paulo a weak smile. “It’s alright, Paulo…”

“It is. You’re going to be fine.” He said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. “You’re going to get better. You’re going to make it through and-“

“…you and I both know that’s not true, _dragul meu_.” Dmitri said, giving him a small, sad smile, unable to see how even amidst the sorrow, the pet name made Paulo blush. “Did you bring what I asked?”

“Yes….” Paulo said, holding the camera close to him. His father would be furious, but Paulo didn’t care. Not when it was Dmitri who had asked.

“…Go on then…”

“I-I can’t….I can’t do this…”

“I want you to…” He said, taking his hand and gently pulling him down. Paulo’s cheeks flushed a bright red as a sweet kiss was placed there. “You’ve wanted to film something like this for so long…I want you to.”

“Dmitri…I…”

“Shhh…It’s okay,” He shifted, clearly in pain. “Paulo please….do this for me…I….it’s starting to hurt again…it isn’t long now…”

Tears streamed down his face as he set the camera up. The shot was beautiful, everything perfectly balanced and in frame. Paulo desperately fought to hold back a sob as he moved back in frame, taking the dying boy’s hand once again. His tears fell harder as he leaned down, just barely pressing his lips to Dmitri’s.

"Paulo?" Dmitri asked as he moved away. "What-"

"Shh...it's okay....Camera’s rolling...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In his life, Dmitri taught Paulo the importance of really focusing on the sound in everything he did, which he'd take to heart when he started working on his films. The pet name that Dmitri calls him translates roughly to "my dear" or "sweetheart." The poem that Paulo was reading is Poe's 'Dream within a Dream.' 
> 
> I don't feel overly confident about this chapter but nonetheless, here you go!


End file.
